Well, That's Another Mystery Solved
by FraidyCat
Summary: Sam finds out who has maintained The Bunker for all these years. (Come on — you had to wonder, at least once…)
1. Chapter 1

**Well, That's Another Mystery Solved**

**by FraidyCat**

**A/N: I admit it — I have a problem with "suspension of disbelief". As much as I love The Bunker (and I do love The Bunker), certain questions have plagued me since the moment The Batcave became a regular SPN plot device. This "three-shot" is an attempt to put my own mind at ease.**

**Chapter 1: The Set-Up**

Sam sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes. "Dean," he started, "it's not like I did it on purpose. You're the one who blew shapeshifter goo all over me. I _had_ to get the suit dry-cleaned."

"I blew shapeshifter goo all over you because you were about to become shapeshifter chum," Dean spat back. "And of course you had to get the suit cleaned. I'm not an idiot, Sam, I'm just tired. So why the hell didn't you put the suit back in the trunk afterwards? It's been _months_ since that job!"

Sam turned his head to watch the darkness rushing by the passenger window. He hated to play on Dean's overly developed sense of Big Brother Guilt — but desperate times called for desperate measures. "The trials started right after that," he informed the window before turning his head back toward his brother. "I wasn't feeling very good, and that first weekend Charlie stayed with us, she picked up the dry cleaning when she went to town for some groceries — she hung the suit in my closet, and I just forgot she put it there. I never use the closet."

Dean's hands tightened around the steering wheel, and he frowned — but to Sam's complete surprise, he continued to argue. "And that's another thing," Dean said. "Move into the damn Bunker, already."

Sam considered that for a moment, and then decided to stick to one fight at a time. "The point is, we're going in as FBI agents tomorrow. I need my suit."

"I know your frickin' point, Sam," Dean huffed. "_My_ point is that it's nearly midnight, and I've been driving almost eight hours. I'm not turning the car around and driving back to the Bunker."

Sam sighed again, and ran a hand through his hair. "So we get a later start tomorrow than we planned," he responded. "It's a small town, but there must be a place that sells suits."

Dean's guffaw rang sarcastic. "In gigantor size?" he asked. "I seem to remember waiting two weeks for alterations on the one you have. Stupid broad shoulders and giraffe legs." He shifted in his seat. "Besides, like you said, it's a small town. Don't you think someone might remember having to sell the FBI agent a suit?"

Sam glared at his brother. "So what are we going to do?" he demanded. "You won't go back to get my suit, and we can't buy a new one. You're not going to the crime scene alone!"

"Didn't say I was,' Dean answered, pumping the brakes and hitting the turn signal. Sam glanced out the windshield and saw that they were turning into a Motel 6.

"Why are we stopping here?" he asked, confused. "We're still an hour out…"

"Tom left the light on for me," Dean quipped, driving slowly toward the motel's office. Once there, he let the car idle in neutral while he turned more fully toward his brother. "This is what we're gonna do. I'm tired. I was tired before we left — but you insisted we had to leave after I'd already spent the entire morning working on Baby."

"The…" Sam started, but Dean interrupted. Loudly.

"**SO**. I'm going to stay here. Get some sleep — something you've been doing for at least half the trip, by the way. You should be well-rested…you can just turn the car around and drive all night. You should be at The Bunker by 8 in the morning."

Sam looked at him, incredulous. "You're kidding. You want me to take the Impala and drive back to pick up my suit?"

Now Dean rolled his eyes. "No, I don't _want_ you take the Impala, Sam. You hurt my Baby, don't even bother to call and tell me about it. But I don't see any other way you're getting back to The Bunker."

"There and back is almost a 16-hour drive!" Sam protested.

Dean reached to open his door. "Then you'll probably think twice before you do something this lame again," he smirked, then moved to exit the car. "Just let me grab my duffle from the trunk."

"Dean!" Sam grabbed for his brother, and just barely caught the sleeve of his jacket. Outside the vehicle now, Dean leaned to look back at Sam.

"Don't bruise my Baby. Find a mini mart or something — get a gallon of hot coffee and some No-Doz. I'll give you four hours to sleep at The Bunker before you start back. I expect you to be back here by 8:00 p.m. tomorrow night."

Sam made one last, desperate, attempt. "Just a few months ago I was dying," he reminded his brother.

Dean flinched, but didn't give in. "Well, you're not anymore," he answered. "You're running in the mornings and crowing about how great you feel. This is your chance to prove it."

It was time to give up. Reluctantly, Sam slid over to the driver's side of the Impala. He reached for the keys. "You need to open the trunk?"

Dean grabbed the keys as soon as Sam slid them from the ignition. "I'll just be keeping these," he informed his brother. "I like to have part of Baby with me at all times." He started for the rear of the vehicle, then stopped. "Or did you forget your set of keys, too? In one of the suit pockets, maybe?"

"Shut up," Sam sulked, digging into the pocket of his jeans — and trying not to show his relief when he found his set of keys to the Impala there. He pulled the keys from his pocket. "They're right here."

Dean was already digging around in the trunk. He emerged with one duffle — and one suit. "Good," he said shortly, slamming the trunk lid and pocketing his own keys. He stopped at the now-closed driver's door on his way into the motel office. "You got any quarters?" he asked through the partially open window. "There might be magic fingers."

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

For the first few hours, Sam's slow burn did more to keep him awake than the mini mart coffee. How could his brother do this to him? Dean hardly ever let Sam drive the Impala — even when they were together — and now he was sending Sam off on 16-hour drives in the middle of the night. After all, it was as much his fault as it was Sam's that the suit was left behind. Well, it was kind-of his fault. Dean hadn't noticed that the suit wasn't in its usual place in the trunk, and he complained so much about their late start yesterday that he thoroughly distracted Sam, who had to spend his energy talking his brother into the trip, instead of remembering things like suits. Plus, if Dean hadn't talked Kevin into taking a break from The Bunker and the angel tablets, the prophet could have at least met Sam halfway, and cut eight hours off his trip.

From 2:00 to 3:00 a.m., self recriminations kept Sam awake. How could he have been so stupid? Their suits were their uniforms, as vital to the job as their bags full of weapons. Yes, he was feeling much better physically than he had during the trials — but maybe something mental had been damaged. He had been depending on Kevin and Charlie more to do things he was perfectly able to do himself — or, at least he used to be able to do them. Had he not noticed that he was losing it? Hell, maybe he had lost it during the whole "Wall" episode. Basically, his life sucked — there had been countless opportunities for him to lose his marbles over the last few years.

At 3:00 a.m., Sam stopped for more coffee. Standing in line at the mini mart — there was a line at 3:00 a.m. at a mini mart? — Sam eyed the display of prepaid phones and contemplated buying one just so he could call Dean and wake him up. Stupid older brothers. One minute they were smothering you, and the next they were kicking you out of bed and making you drive all night. Not only that — _Sam's_ older brother would figure out the call was from Sam, even if he didn't use his regular phone, and even if it was 3:00 a.m. Sam was in enough trouble already, so he just paid for his coffee and hit the road.

By 4:00 a.m. he was singing along with Kansas, off-key and loud. He started singing to keep himself awake — but after awhile, he started to enjoy it. No one to tell him he was off-key. No one to complain when he got the words wrong. No one to notice that, truth be told, he loved 70s rock — it reminded him of road trips with his father, when he and Dean were innocent (even though they didn't know it). Good times.

5:00 a.m. found Sam weepy and full of remorse, mourning for all that he and his stellar older brother had lost. They had lost all that innocence — years before most people do, and in ways that most people _never_ do. Mom. Dad. Jess. Lisa. Ben. Bobby. Pastor Jim. Rufus. Ellen, and Jo. They'd dragged Kevin into this mire of quicksand that passed for their lives — and now Charlie was off in some other dimension, because of them. It was horrible. It was all horrible. Walls, and scars, and angels without grace, and kings of hell in the dungeon…Holy Shit.

Sam had to pull off the road just a couple of hours away from The Bunker, to sit on the hood of the Impala at a scenic overlook and watch the sun rise. Consciously, he let the darkness within him slowly leech away, just as the darkness around him did. He allowed the sun to rise, reminding himself that the sun was coming up — and nobody knew better than he did what a miracle that was. It wouldn't be fair to say that he had found his hope again, by the time he got back into the car — but at least the brisk air had invigorated him, and he was no longer suicidal, so Sam was counting it as a "win".

About an hour before he reached The Bunker, Dean called. Sam put him on speaker and laughed for 15 minutes while Dean lay in his warm Motel 6 bed and regaled him with tales of the roadside bar he had found just a few miles from the motel — a bar Dean had somehow found the energy to not only visit, but close, the night before. Sam stopped his brother midway into a description of his subsequent experience with Magic Fingers, and the two brothers were on much friendlier terms when they ended the call than they had been when Sam's long drive began. Dean even said that Sam could sleep "as long as he needed to" before making the 8-hour trip back.

After Sam's unplanned scenic stop, it was nearing 8:30 a.m. before he finally guided the Impala down the long dirt-and-gravel drive that led to The Bunker. His wide yawn was abruptly swallowed in a gulp of apprehension when he came around the last bend in the drive — and saw the late-model Ford pickup parked outside the main door. He quickly shut down the Impala's purring engine and let the muscle car coast to a stop behind the truck. His eyes darted around the outside of Dean's "Batcave" while he blindly opened the car's glove compartment and retrieved the .44-caliber Smith & Wesson nestled within. Seeing no activity, Sam determined whoever was visiting must be _inside_. "What the hell?" he murmured, as he carefully shouldered open the driver's side door. He winced as the familiar creak sounded, which suddenly seemed entirely too loud. "Damn it Dean, get some WD," he whispered, leaving the car door hanging open while he crept — Smith & Wesson first — toward The Bunker.

**End, Chapter 1**


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, That's Another Mystery Solved**

**by FraidyCat**

**Chapter 2: The Discovery**

Sam opened the front door as quietly as he could — Thank God it didn't creak like the Impala's doors did. He followed the gun inside, silently, then stood just inside the door, listening.

It didn't take long to hear it — some sort of banging, coming from the kitchen. Quickly, still using his silent cat feet, Sam followed the sound.

He let the Smith & Wesson lead the way around the corner that led into the kitchen. The cupboard under the sink was open, and a pair of legs stuck out into the room. The banging was obviously coming from inside the cupboard.

Sam moved until he was standing directly to the left of the open kitchen cabinet. He glanced to the rear, to make sure an accomplice wasn't sneaking up on him, then pulled back the hammer of the .44. The ominous click of the cocking gun echoed in the kitchen. "Come out of there slowly," he growled. "Keep your hands where I can see them."

The banging stopped abruptly, and a second passed in complete silence. Then two. Finally Sam heard an "Oh, dear", and the legs began to move. Sam backed up into a safe position as the man emerged, hands held in front of him as he awkwardly scooted out of the cupboard and onto the floor. "May I sit up?"

Sam blinked. "Who the hell are you?" he countered. "Why are you here?"

The stranger, middle aged, bald, a tad pudgy around the middle, was looking less and less like a threat. "I'll tell you," the man said. "Please, if I could sit up? I feel all sorts of odd speaking to you from the floor like this."

"_All sorts of odd"?_ Sam mused. Who talks that way? "Are you an angel?" he asked suspiciously, wondering as he said the words when angels started driving pick-ups.

His B&E plumber actually giggled. "Oh, dear. No, no, not an angel. My back hurts too much for that."

Sam considered. Then he took another step back, keeping his weapon trained on the stranger. "Keep your hands in sight," he commanded. "Stand up, and drop your coveralls to the floor."

The stranger, who had risen to a half-sitting lounge, now allowed himself to flop back onto the floor. "Oh, dear," he said again, his face reddening furiously. "Can't you just frisk me or something?"

"Don't want to get that close," Sam answered. "If you want up, those are the rules."

For a moment, he thought the man might actually prefer to lie on the floor. Finally, the stranger sighed, and, leaving his hands always in sight, used the edge of the sink to pull himself into a stand. Then, he turned slightly so that he was fully facing Sam. Again careful about where he placed his hands, the man unbuttoned the shoulder straps of his coveralls, shimmying until they dropped to the floor, revealing a too-small dingy white t-shirt, blue cotton boxers, and knee-high trouser socks held up by garters. He started miserably at the floor, refusing to meet Sam's eyes. "May I move to sit at the kitchen table now, Sam?" he asked.

Sam was thinking about how there was no way in hell anything could be concealed in that tight t-shirt — and it took him a moment to recognize his name. "What?" he said. "How do you know my name?"

The stranger smiled. "Sam…we know _everything_ about you and your brother Dean. By the way, is Dean with you? Will he be joining us soon?"

**SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN • SPN**

The Smith & Wesson lay on the tabletop between the two men, Sam's large hand dwarfing the revolver. He sat at one end of the table, while his guest — the guy knew his real name, so that moved him from B&E to guest, although he still couldn't be trusted — sat at the other. Baldy smiled, a trifle nervously. "Obviously, we weren't expecting you back so soon. We must have gotten bad intel from the home office."

Sam couldn't decide on which way he wanted to respond to that, so he just continued to glare.

His guest cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. I suppose we should start at the beginning. My name is Peter. Peter Kincaid. It's quite an honor to meet you."

"Have you been reading those stupid books?" Sam asked.

Peter frowned. "Books? I'm required to read quite a bit for my job…if you're referring to the Winchester books, yes, yes, I have read those. And quite a bit of that — what does Charlie call it? — oh, yes. Fanfic. But that's neither here nor there."

Sam's glare took on a dangerous tone, and his hand tightened around the gun. "You know who Charlie is?"

Peter unsuccessfully attempted another smile. "I told you, we know everything about you. Our research is quite extensive."

Sam picked the gun up off the table and leaned forward. "Who. Are. You?"

Peter looked confused. "Why, I've told you. Kincaid, Peter." His brow cleared as he made a connection. "Oh! You mean, who are 'we', of course, and why do we know so much. Correct?" Sam nodded, and Kincaid hurried on. "The Men of Letters Directors." He grinned. "MOLD, if you prefer."

Sam tried to digest this information — but found that he couldn't. "'Men of Letters Directors?'"

Peter nodded vigorously. "Oh, yes. The Men of Letters organization has had a Board of Directors since the beginning. Someone has to be in charge, you know."

Sam was becoming so interested that he let go of the gun. "In charge of what?"

Peter waved his arms to indicate the space around him. "Well, The Bunker, for one thing. Who do you think pays the property taxes? The water bill? Has kept electricity constantly in service for the last 80 years?"

Sam sat back, frowning. "80? Henry Winchester…"

Peter interrupted. "Yes, yes, Henry Winchester didn't enter his final Men of Letters initiation until 1958, I know." He smiled benevolently at Sam. "Have you been laboring under the misguided impression that he was among the first Men of Letters?" Having rendered Sam speechless, Kincaid continued his story. "The earliest Men of Letters saw the need for Directors. Throughout the generations, our job is to keep The Bunkers ready for occupancy at all times. Updating when it's called for, while still leaving enough period atmosphere to convince the occupants that The Bunkers are special and authentic places."

"Bunkers?" Sam repeated. "There's more than one?"

Peter's face became an impassive mask. "Perhaps," he hedged, changing the subject as quickly as he could. "You know, you've made our job very difficult."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."

"Well," Peter fussed, "The Bunkers…Bunker…is supposed to be a safe place for hunters. Off the grid. You and your brother have turned this into a halfway house. You left Kevin here alone for weeks — and we couldn't get in to make necessary repairs, since we had no idea when or if he would ever leave. Charlie dropped by repeatedly — and I don't even want to tell you the ramifications we suffered when she ran off to Oz with Dorothy. You have the king of Hell in one of the dungeons, a prophet lives here most of the time, and at least two angels have intimate knowledge of The Bunker."

Sam started to get defensive. "Except for Crowley — and that was Dean's idea — all of those people…" He stopped. "Wait. Did you say two angels? Who besides Cas in an angel?"

Peter's face blushed fiery red again. "I…misspoke," he stammered. "You got me upset. I was trying to explain how difficult you've made things. Take today, for example. We've known for weeks that there was a leak in the kitchen sink waterline that needed to be repaired, but someone was always here. When we heard you and Dean planning this trip, we thought we'd finally be able to get something done — and yet, here you are!"

Sam suddenly stood, nervous, and glanced up into the corners of the kitchen. "You heard us?" he questioned. "Can you see everything, too?"

Peter remained seated, and tilted his head. "Not everything," he answered. "We have cameras in the main library, in the dungeons, the shooting range…. Your bedrooms are perfectly safe. For now. The matter is under discussion on almost every agenda."

Sam paled. "I told Dean not to get too comfortable here. This is not our home."

Peter looked up at Sam in great seriousness. "But of course it is, Sam! Yes, you've made it difficult for the Directors, but we'll adjust. For years, this place was empty — can you imagine how difficult it was for us then? To care for a place that sits empty, shelters no one…well, it's depressing, that's all. I, for one, am pleased that the Winchesters are here…" — he smiled — "…even if it means that a few other entities are also here. You're from the greatest line of hunters that ever lived, Sam. I'm only sorry that Henry and John Winchester never got to see this great place."

Sam swallowed, then sank back down into his chair. "I don't know what to do with all this," he admitted. "I feel like I might be hallucinating, I'm so tired."

Peter nodded. "I understand. The good news is, now that you know about us, you can stand anywhere in the library and announce, 'I sure wish the hot water tank was bigger' — whatever you want, whatever needs to be repaired, or updated — within reason, of course — and the Directors will get right on it."

Sam had heard the other shoe drop for most of his life, and he knew what it sounded like by now. "And what's the bad news?"

Peter grimaced slightly. "I'm sorry, Sam — but the Directors must remain a secret, for obvious reasons. I'm afraid that you can never tell Dean what you found here today."

"We get into trouble when we keep secrets from each other," Sam said, and Peter looked genuinely grieved.

"I know that you do," he agreed. "Secrets between you are never pleasant; never good — but sometimes, they are necessary." His gaze intensified as he leaned toward Sam a bit. "Always remember that, Sam. Sometimes, secrets are necessary."

**End, Chapter 2**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, That's Another Mystery Solved**

**by FraidyCat**

**Chapter 3: The Reveal**

Dean's Big Brother guilt was a little late, maybe, but now it was kicking in big time.

Sam had looked a wreck when he arrived back at the Motel 6 — and he had arrived almost two full hours before Dean expected him. Maybe he had laid it on a little thick the night before.

A shower had perked his brother up a little, and Sam had seemed willing enough to go back to the bar with Dean — this time for a simple burger-and-beer, though — they were back in the room before 10 o'clock. Sam had eaten heartily, his renewed appetite growing healthier every day, but he seemed quiet to Dean — ever since he got back, really. Even now, he was sitting on top of his bed, ignoring an open laptop balanced on his slightly raised knees, staring blankly at the television. Dean knew he wasn't really seeing what was on, because it was an old western they had both seen multiple times — and Sam hadn't complained, or asked him to change the channel, or anything.

"Hey," Dean started, and Sam turned his head to look at him. "Why don't you turn in early. I know you couldn't have slept very long before you headed back here. Crowley breathing too loud again?"

Sam smiled. "Nah. I never heard a sound out of him."

Dean pressed. "Just couldn't sleep?"

Sam immediately directed his gaze back to the television, then sighed a little as he closed the laptop, and rolled to the other side of the bed, so he could set the laptop on the floor. "No. I…uh…found some mold in the kitchen."

The surprise showed in Dean's voice. "Mold? We just left yesterday!"

Sam inched down into the bed, keeping his back toward his brother. "Yeah, it was under the kitchen sink — looks like there's been a leaking water line for awhile. I cleaned that up, fixed the line so it won't happen again, and then I just hit the road."

"Huh," Dean responded. "Surprised I never noticed that. I'm in the kitchen more than you are."

"Hey, Dean," Sam suddenly asked, still curled on his side, his back to his brother, "are you keeping any secrets from me?"

Dean froze, suddenly glad that Sam wasn't looking at him. "Secrets?" he ground out. "Like what? And don't you think we've gone down that road enough times already?"

Sam's shoulders shrugged. "Yeah. Sorry, it was a stupid question." He yawned. "I was just thinking about some stuff…during the drive…and I wanted to tell you that I understand some things a little better now. I mean, sometimes, secrets are necessary — right?"

Dean wanted to say, _"Not between us. Not anymore. Not ever again."_, but he couldn't. "Maybe," he finally grunted, and picking up the remote, he started channel surfing. "Just stop thinking so much and go to sleep. We've got suits to wear tomorrow."

Sam yawned again. "'Kay," he mumbled. "Goodnight, Dean."

Dean stared at the ceiling. "Goodnight, Sam."

**End, Story**


End file.
